


Captain, My Captain

by twistedthicket1



Series: The Stripper Diaries [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Erotic dancing, Feels, Gratuitous porn, M/M, Military Kink, Oral, Smut, Stripping, basically all porn, because let's face it it's kind of obvious there's going to be smut in this one, john is a stripper, like really, stripper!lock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes walks into a strip club for a case. He winds up leaving with more than he bargained for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain, My Captain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayandcynical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayandcynical/gifts).



> So this fic and series are a gift and has been edited by for my for lack of a better word, human: Damelia0Evenshire :) I was hit with stripper!lock feels and now feel compelled to write in this verse... the first AU I thought of being John dancing as a stripper to Jason Derulo's "Talk Dirty To Me". For those of you that would like the full experience of this fic, I'd suggest giving it a listen :) Also, I'm going to hell for writing this. I've accepted my fate...

 

 

It seemed like a straightforward enough case on paper. Boring, _dull._ As of late six males working in the red-line and erotic dance trade had turned up dead. Not uncommon, but a linking trait made them stand out- the fact that it was evident that all of them had been brutally murdered. Plebeian, likely a psychopath expressing their jealousy and self-perceived claim over said victims. Textbook, really. Yet somehow, the murderer had managed to avoid capture for nearly two months, something that Sherlock had been quick to rib Lestrade over mercilessly.

Still, it kept the boredom marginally more at bay, and by the state of Mrs. Hudson’s walls, that was something to be deeply desired. Sherlock didn’t feel quite so compelled to destroy the flat when he was working on a puzzle, and even though this one was mindlessly simplistic in nature, he supposed it was better than allowing his mind to stagnate.

Working through the victims, it because painfully obvious from where the next victim would come from. The murderer was following an alphabetical order pattern in terms of streets-

 

There was a strip club on Grover Square: _The Vitruvian Man._

If the detective was correct (and he very rarely wasn’t) the murderer’s next victim would come from behind the black double-doors of the particular strip club he had pinned to his map of London’s city.

 _Sex_ , Sherlock mused to himself, made people rather ridiculously predictable. For not the first time, the detective reflected on the fact that he was endlessly glad that he was above such things so _completely._

 

****

A disguise was needed for this endeavour. Sherlock spent a long time musing over how he should present himself, in order to blend into the background and yet stand out enough that the dancers might be willing to approach him.

Standing in front of his closet, the detective mulled over his wardrobe. His spider-like hands came to stroke thoughtfully over the deep plum shirt hanging patiently before him. An image of a persona came into Sherlock’s mind.

Leather jacket.

Purple shirt…

With a small, wicked grin, Sherlock let go of the sleeve of the shirt to clasp his hands together in triumph.

Black jeans. Particularly, the one’s with _all_ of those tears.

The web already beginning to be spun, the detective couldn’t help but murmur a breathless “Excellent.”

At this rate, the murderer might just be distracted enough to target him. Wouldn’t that make things interesting?

 

****

 _The Vitruvian Man_ had a reflective title flashing just above the door, visible only by night, and within the letters _V_ and _A_ two figures could be seen moving in LED snapshots sinuously along them. Sherlock took a moment to stare at the title, his eyes reflecting the light of the title and turning his blue irises a deep and sultry purple.

He was sure to walk in appearing calmly confident, though to be fair it wasn’t that hard of an act to uphold. The detective had no fear of being caught, unlike the majority of the people currently slinking through the door.

The interior, in defiance to its somewhat clichéd outward appearance, was rather elegant. The floor was the kind of black that was nearly reflective, and cleaned as if someone had run over the place with a cloth, again and again and again. It wouldn’t last as the night would go on, Sherlock was sure, but as it was the bar looked like it was floating upon a black sea, a darkly curled woman leaning against the counter and cleaning glasses.

Sherlock made his way forward, flashing a charming smile and asking for rum and coke. He was careful to keep his body language open, even as she returned with his drink with a polite smile. It was still slow as the evening had not truly started yet, and so she introduced herself as Sally. Sally Donovan.

She was also, most definitely, not his type despite her flirting. Still, she could be useful.

“You’re new around here, then?” Sally crossed her arms over her chest, glancing at him up curiously through her lashes. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, his gaze flicking over the people streaming in and out. A few couples, some people who were technically in a relationship already but were bending the rules. The common amalgamation of ageing men. There was a murmur of low excitement in the air, and from what pieces the detective could hear from the people walking by, it had very much to do with the scheduled show to come.

“Who’s up for tonight?” Sherlock tilted his head towards the centrepiece of the place, a gleaming silver pole that stood on a platform. It was currently empty, but there were obvious regulars already getting themselves seats, obviously chafing for the show to get started. Donovan laughed quietly, and the sound was bright and warm if slightly disbelieving.

“You mean you don’t _know_ , luv? “Three Continents” is out tonight, and he’s pulling in a crowd.”

She said the title like it was the breath of a saving grace, like the name could be used as a beacon of light to lost ships at sea. Sherlock merely arched a brow in question, and the barmaid darted a mischievous tongue over her lips. Her dark brown eyes fluttered, and she traced a ring on the bar with one finger.

“His name’s John Watson, and he’s new. Fits a type, and so he pulls a large group when it’s his night… He’s.... good. Not the youngest but easily our strongest, and most charming.”

The lack of suitable explanation only irked Sherlock. How was he supposed to tell if John was a potential victim for the killer if he had no information? His annoyance must have flickered on his face briefly, because Sally’s smirk only deepened. In a deceptively innocent voice, she added

“Oh. And he’s bisexual. Like, _extremely_ bisexual.”

The detective stiffened, momentarily letting the mask of his disguise slip as he asked. “Why would it matter to me?”

Sally Donovan’s smirk only grew. “Please. If you wanted to come across as straight, do yourself a favour. _Notice_ the fact that I’m wearing a corset that turns my B-cups to Ds.”

Sherlock, to his complete surprise, realised that she was, in fact, probably correct.

It didn’t change the fact that Sherlock most definitely was not even _slightly_ curious about this strange and mysterious “Three Continents” John Watson.

 

****

The evening began to truly thicken, and with it came throngs of people. Sherlock had thought it’d be easy to pick out the killer from the rest of the crowd, but the detective soon realised he had made a vital error. He had operated under the belief that it would be a regular show tonight, and it was clear that when it came to “Three Continents”, the title preceded a bit. The detective found himself a quiet enough corner with a good view of the stage, but even he couldn’t push himself to the very front of it. Ambient music began playing at some point, something poppy and thrumming with a beat that set the detective’s teeth on edge. Multicoloured lights reflected off of rhinestones and the spikes on leather jackets and jeans. From the stage, it would turn the audience in to a blended, darkly colourful mass defined only by heat and want, rather than a collection of individuals. This, Sherlock reflected, would help him hide within the unidentifiable throng of people.

As the evening wore on, the air began to heat with warm bodies, and soon a small layer of sweat was pooling on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Suddenly, his jacket felt less like a comfort and more like a slickening second layer of skin. It was nearly eleven when an announcer at the side of the room with a shaved head and a low voice crackled to life from hidden speakers, speaking out over the thrum of noise and causing the majority of the audience to fall to silence.

“And now, ladies, gents, everything in between, I’d like to direct you to the main attraction and our opening act.”

A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd, the air crackling with tension. Sherlock unconsciously found himself craning his neck, wanting to see better. He caught himself in the act and froze, forcing himself to keep an eye out for the killer. They would be eager to watch too. Likely unnaturally so.

There was a figure standing slumped at the far edge of the platform, his hands in his pockets. Dishwater-blonde hair obstructed his face from view. Sherlock bit back a small curse of annoyance. There were too many people!

The announcer carried on, oblivious to the detective’s struggles.

“From around the world, he’s been to Afghanistan, America, and yes, South America.” He grinned luxuriously. “My good people, ‘Three Continents’ Watson!”

The platform pulsed, falling to darkness along with the club. Sherlock found himself holding his breath along with the rest of the crowd, the taste of rum and coke lingering on his lips sweetly as dryness ran along his tongue. If he strained, he thought his suspect moved, ever so slightly.

There was absolute, deafening silence, heavy and oppressive. Then, the lights flickered to life; a single spotlight came to life, gold-yellow. The detective blinked as he took in the man standing before the audience in parade’s rest, and found himself rather… confused.

He was dressed in military fatigues, although a proper eye could tell they were not in fact, the real deal. Blonde hair turned silver under the light of the stage, and dark blue eyes glanced up from nearly colourless lashes. They did not make eye contact. John Watson made an unimposing figure, standing by the silver pole with his head slightly bowed. Sherlock picked out minute details of the man’s personal life, fluttering through his mind.

_Ex-army. Soldier- no, medic too. Invalidated back home? Why? Ah. A limp. Barely noticeable but there. Shoulder injury too. Just look at him- why would he choose this kind of career?_

It was as if he were awaiting orders patiently, awaiting some sort of cue, and Sherlock had the strange, irrational thought that perhaps he had made an error in calculation.

No killer would want this man, this quiet mouse standing upon the stage, confident but ultimately… _boring._

That, was when a voice came to life over the speakers, the intro to a song that Sherlock did not know the lyrics to… but thrummed through him suddenly like lifeblood.

_Jason…_

Jason Derulo…

With the stuttering, giggling voice playing overhead, John Watson took a deep, seemingly endless breath. Then, the man smiled, a hand shooting out to grip the pole beside him with sinuous grace and a shoulder roll, and oh, Sherlock knew then he had miscalculated.

Miscalculated _badly._

With the first, throbbing climb into the rhythm of the song, John Watson’s feet were suddenly off the ground, limp seemingly vanished and shoulder injury unbothered. The stripper’s hips came to hug the pole with what was quite frankly a filthy and provocatively powerful show of upper body strength, thigh muscles quivering minutely with the strain. A positively wicked grin adorned the man’s lips as he faced his audience over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched in question.

It was with the first twirl about the pole’s circumference that the money began to fall. The bank notes carpeted the stage in impressive hues of purple and red, and with every dropping note, the stripper’s clothes came off.

Sherlock couldn’t quite tell when John had somehow managed to unbutton the outer jacket of his fatigues, but he knew the instant it fell away from the man’s twisting shoulders. John Watson touched the ground again as it fell, pausing in his acrobatics to slowly run one hand down his front, towards his crotch. Against his control, the detective found his gaze tracking the movement, only able to tear it away from its final destination at the last moment. The next moment the tight, fitted t-shirt John had under the jacket began being teased with, the man’s movements fluid and making Sherlock’s imagination fly somewhat violently towards the fantastical idea of having John writhing against him.

 _Christ,_ Sherlock could picture that though. What would it be like, to have John grinding his hips against his own? To have the army doctor pressing against him, forcing him against a wall by kissing his neck, biting down just hard enough to have the detective _trembling-_

Sherlock adjusted himself discreetly, and was sure that if he had been fourteen his cheeks would have been bright red with complete embarrassment. It was unprofessional. _Wrong._ The man’s life was likely at stake and yet here the detective was, fantasizing about him like a horny teenager. It was _beyond_ not good, and yet Sherlock’s body seemed to be having other ideas.

It was the lyrics to the song, surely. They were… just _dirty_. Filthy, sexual in the most delicious and yet depraved way. Or perhaps that was _John,_ as the man’s trousers were beginning to slip even lower down his hips to reveal a shocking red flag-

_Crimson pants._

_Fuck,_ and his gaze was falling in Sherlock’s direction.

The detective might have been crazy, but he was relatively certain with the words _International Oral Sex_ blaring through the speakers, John Watson _winked_ at him. Knees weaker than a newborn deer’s, the detective gave up all pretence of pretending to be aloof, and gave in to his longing to stare.

Then, before Sherlock had even fully gotten all of his appreciation into it, the song was ending, fading into the distance as John stripped the last of his clothing away- his shirt. It was soon apparent why- the ex-army doctor had along his shoulder like a bolt of lightning a scar that flashed silver in the lights of the stage, running all the way to his navel with spider-like fingers.

It really didn’t subtract from the man’s abs, now sweat-slick and as dark as a nut. Nor the glistening dog-tags, circular about his neck and chipped from battle.

Those, were _real._

Sherlock felt his own lips part in abject want, and his cock, heavy and hot twitched in his trousers. He had never felt so _horny,_ so bloody and painfully turned on in his life.

Then the stage went dark, and with it, the detective’s brain went somewhat offline.

He didn’t notice the blonde man that had been lingering in the corner had disappeared with the reuptake of the lights, the crowd’s cheers as loud as a pulse dying off into the night.

 

****

Other dancers came onto the stage, but Sherlock could barely give them the attention they deserved. His thoughts were filled with John, an aching hardness between his legs and his mind subsumed with the flash of bright red pants and a mischievous smile. The detective stayed whilst people came and went, until dregs of people finally began to dissolve into London’s streets, headed home into the early hours of the morning. By the end of it Sherlock’s ears were ringing with pop music, and he was more than just slightly buzzed.

The blonde man stayed as well, and as the night wore on he became more and more obvious. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed upon him, and in his pocket, his mobile texted a profile to Lestrade. The fact that the D.I was likely already in bed really wasn’t a factor in the detective’s mind, not with the all-consuming thought that John would not be safe, not at least until Lestrade got his people on the case. It was this logic that lead the detective to hover, waiting with somewhat mixed feelings for the moment when John would come out from the changing room.

The detective ignored the looks Sally was giving him, half-knowing and half-pitying.

“He _liked_ you.” She murmured to Sherlock’s turned back. “He hardly ever looks at people like that during a show.”

The detective pretended that something warm and fitfully hopeful bloomed in his chest at the words.

His chance came a moment later, as sure enough, the ex-army doctor came out in his street clothes. A thick cream jumper wrapped around the man’s small frame warded away London’s damp chill, dark jeans and simple shoes complementing the look nicely but softening and hiding John’s body. His good shoulder carried a bulky duffel bag. Sherlock saw it and thought somewhat petulantly that the world was unfair, if it allowed someone like John Watson to walk around in such concealing and frumpy attire.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the suspect move. Sinuous like a snake, the intent was clear in the man’s walk- he intended to chat John up. Without really thinking the detective was already on his feet. Under no circumstances was he about to let anything happen to his newfound interest. Striding forward, Sherlock made sure that his goal was clear:

Sure enough, the blonde-haired man scowled, pausing before slinking away.

Definitely the killer. Lestrade would be pleased if he ever actually got here.

The army doctor’s head snapped up with Sherlock’s approach, and for a moment, those sharp blue eyes widened before they blinked in hesitant confusion. The man that Sherlock had seen on stage seemed to be replaced with the man that had existed in the silence before the music, the man limping slightly as he came to a stop before the detective. Finally seeing John Watson before him without the separation of an audience or a platform, Sherlock found himself rather at a loss for words. Beyond getting John out of harm’s way of a potential psychopath and murderer, truthfully the darkly-curled man hadn’t really thought so far.

As if sensing Sherlock’s sudden inability to speak, the army-doctor quirked a rather self-conscious smile, running the hand not securing the duffle-bag to his shoulder through his hair. The blonde tufts stood out on end spikily for a moment, and the detective was rather vividly reminded of a hedgehog. When the army doctor spoke, it was with a voice that seemed it could be soft as it could belt orders. Was it somewhat shameful that Sherlock instantly thought of how easily John’s spine had contorted itself to bend its way up the pole? Possibly, yet the image still flitted through him and sent electricity simmering through his bones.

“You enjoy the show then?”

Enjoy? That was… perhaps one word for it. Sherlock swallowed, the bob of his throat catching John’s eye, the army doctor’s dark gaze strangely intense for a man so small.

Small, but powerful. That much had been obvious from the way John had moved up on stage.

“It was…powerful.” Yes, that had been the word for it. Also: _Sexy, wicked_ , and _sinful._

As if sensing the words unspoken, John’s smile only widened, turning into something toothy and just the slightest bit cheeky. It was as if it was a wordless promise.

“Glad you enjoyed, though I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. You new?”

The detective nodded his affirmative, remembering his disguise at the last second.

“Yes, friend recommended it. Rather glad I listened to him for a change.”

“Funny, I find myself glad you did as well. Then again, I’ve always been a sucker for dark curls and tight shirts.”

A blatant come-on, and Sherlock found himself not turned off by it. Not even slightly. Quite the opposite, if the warmth in his groin was anything to go by. He could see out of the corner of his eye a group of shadows amalgamating outside the door, one specifically a body he recognised. Licking his lower lip, he stepped closer, his gaze piercing even as he looked down at the unimposing man before him. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it would work, but he had a feeling, and it was a feeling so rarely felt that he was tempted to indulge in it.

 

“As much as pleasantries are nice and the barmaid has been egging me on to ask you for a shag for most of the night, I must admit that I did not come here simply for pleasure. In about four point eight seconds, this place is going to be crawling with police professionals, more or less intent on keeping you, John Watson, safe from the killer that is shadowing us over by the bar.”

As he spoke, Sherlock watched John’s playful expression turn into something that was a mix of suspicion and awe. Though he didn’t look directly at the man that was apparently looking for a chance to kill him, the detective watched the soldier’s old instincts kicking in, a flicked gaze towards the exits, and a minute curling of the man’s hands at his side. John kept his voice level, conversational, but his words though light in tone held a note of importance.

“Not that I don’t believe you, but I must admit I’m prone to be a bit… _sceptical_ of random men approaching me with secrets. How am I to know your information is reliable?”

The detective smirked, and by way of answer, he deduced.

“You’re an ex-army doctor, used to be in the military before this. You’ve been on vacation back to wherever you were posted recently judging from the minute tan-lines on your body, but have been away long enough that the scar on your shoulder has begun to silver. My guess is that you took the job for the money, then kept it because it keeps you active and you enjoy it. You find yourself attracted to the excitement of it, the thrill of having other people watching you. Yet despite your nickname you rarely sleep with a partner, which speaks of trust issues, possibly nightmares. Your PTSD then, which is evident by the fact that you limp when you’re not actively stripping.”

He said it all with a breathless rush, and then because Sherlock couldn’t seem to make his mouth stop, continued some more.

“You like feeling in control. Crave it when so much in your life has been following orders or getting kicked out of a career that made you feel alive. You indicated interest in me earlier within the show and are right now staring at me as if you’d either like to toss me into the Thames or toss me off and truthfully, I’m a bit too turned on at the moment to exactly determine which. If it’s the first I’ll warn you, Anderson has tried-”

The detective was cut off then, a sharp sound issuing from John’s chest. It took Sherlock a moment to recognise it for what is was-

Laughter.

It was a boyish noise, surprisingly innocent and bright, and when John threw his head back, Sherlock could hear the click of his tags underneath his shirt and felt the same pulsing feeling rush back into him, an echoic memory of the music from before. The detective felt a somewhat deep pull at the idea of creating that sound once more.

“You’re fantastic, you know that, right?” John asked a moment laughter, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Sherlock couldn’t help but snort softly, an eyebrow quirking upwards.

 

“That’s not what they usually say.”

“What do they say then?” John asked, and as he did he stepped closer, the question becoming more of a purr. It was only with the barest of hesitation the stripper dared to run one hand up Sherlock’s arm, smoothing down his chest to fiddle with the man’s buttons. Sherlock would have replied, but as it was his brain had decided to do the annoying thing it had been attempting lately – to shut down.

Plus, at that very moment Gregory Lestrade burst in with his team, every inch the “terrifying cop” persona as he shouted _“FREEZE!”_

The detective had nearly forgotten about his killer, who in a moment of panic, attempted to bolt for the fire exit.

Sally, surprisingly quick for someone currently tight-lacing, was on him faster than anyone could really move. If she was perhaps a bit more… _brutal_ than was necessary with the mace she carried in her purse, well….

Lestrade tended to bend the rules of his job to begin with.

 

****

Somehow, both John and Sherlock found themselves mutually agreeing that Sherlock’s flat would be the most desirable venue. John didn’t mention aloud that he was currently living in a bedsit, but the detective wasn’t exactly stupid, and as a result it was decided without much fuss even as the detective used his mile-long body to demand attention from cabs.

The fact that Sherlock had rather nimbly avoided having to give his statement to the police by being both belligerent and sneaky was something that had John in an equal fit of disapproval and relief, disapproval due to his feeling of duty towards his country, relief because even as Sherlock succeeded in hailing a cab John took the opportunity to pull the detective towards him by his coat, inhaling the taste of cigarettes, mint gum and just a hint of something sweet as he pressed his lips against the man’s neck. The swipe of John’s tongue laving across the pale column of the detective’s throat turned the vaguely warm hum of lust into a promising flame once more, and Sherlock once again found himself struggling to think properly, even as the cabbie honked with impatience.

Separating, John’s voice was a growl even as fingers tightened at the base of Sherlock’s curls. The tug on them was light, but it sent shivers of pleasure shuddering through the detective’s spine.

“I’m going to have _so_ much fun with you.” He whispered by way of parting, and the whine that tore itself through the detective’s teeth was borderline whorish and caused the man’s ears to pinken in embarrassment. John’s gaze only darkened at the sound of it.

The cab ride was spent mostly in silence, with Sherlock squirming in his seat with a raging hard-on, and John truthfully not doing much better.

It was tempting, so tempting to just reach out, to touch- Yet Sherlock in the back of his mind knew that if he started, he would not stop, and frankly the idea of getting kicked out of a cab for being indecent was just a bit too unprofessional. John seemed to agree, although he didn’t seem to mind keying Sherlock up a bit. He kept licking his lips as if he were inviting them to be bitten, and occasionally his hand would drift down to his own crotch, fingers shivering over the bulge there with a teasing kind of air.

John knew how to put on a show, and it was evident in his calm confidence, even as they pulled up to Baker Street. As Sherlock rifled through his pockets to find his wallet, the detective was stopped short by capable hands, smoothing their way down his coat collar and along into the inside pocket of his jacket. When his fingers came to rest in Sherlock’s own, the detective found money obviously from tonight’s show being pressed into the palm of his hand.

“Doesn’t really sit right when my date pays for things on the first night. Makes me feel a bit like a prostitute.”

Sherlock, currently more focused on how John’s lips were tracking along his jaw, only just picked up on the subtle implication.

“There’ll be more, then? More… dates?” It seemed like the wrong word for what they were doing, what with one of John’s hands sinking lower to trace up along Sherlock’s abdomen. The army doctor hummed a noise that could be interpreted as an affirmative; his whisper wicked as he bit down gently on the lobe of Sherlock’s ear. The sensation sent heat trailing down to the detective’s groin, and his cock twitched inside of his pants. Biting his lip, Sherlock stifled a moan.

“If you’re good.”

Then John was moving outside of the cab, and Sherlock was left panting, feeling somewhat bereft by the lack of warmth pressing up against him.

They were quiet up the steps lest Mrs. Hudson awaken, but as Sherlock’s shaking fingers put the key through the door to 221 B the detective turned- only to find himself pressed through the entrance of his own flat by a clash of tongue and lips. Sherlock had kissed before, he was not the virgin that his brother might claim by any long stretch of the imagination, having gotten bored much like any teenager would have in high school and uni. However it was evident pretty quickly that John was far more experienced, and the detective found to his surprise he rather enjoyed the army doctor taking the lead, nipping his lips as if to herd Sherlock physically to his bedroom.

It was perhaps by blind instinct that both men managed to avoid the clutter in the flat, the detective not particularly choosy in how he left open case files lying on the floor, stacked onto the desks, and pinned to the walls. As they passed by the mantel, the sweet pressure of John’s mouth momentarily dissipated, the army doctor’s eyebrows raising in surprise as he turned to look at the skull, sitting in macabre watch over its owner like a watchful guardian.

Sherlock’s cheeks were painted by two pink points of colour, but his eyes glimmered with mirth at John’s expression.

“An old friend.” The detective explained somewhat breathlessly; “I deduce, he listens. It’s been a good deal, all in all.”

John grinned then, his expression only growing more and more wicked as he slowly slid his hands down Sherlock’s body, his knees going with them. Pinned so that his own body his pressed against the mantel, the detective could only watch wide-eyed as John’s fingers trail along the cloth of his jeans, reaching up to flick open Sherlock’s fly. The army doctor’s voice was a purr as he nosed along the detective’s groin, licking a stripe along the fabric that made the detective’s eyes closed, his head falling back with a thunk right by the skull’s perch.

“You’re utterly mad.” John said, but his eyes were warm and took the bite off of the insult. Callused hands reached around, gripping and squeezing the detective’s arse, sending ripples of pleasure through both of them. Sherlock groaned, the sound turning keening even as John shimmied his jeans further down his hips. The detective still had his coat on- and it felt too warm, even as the army doctor began to peel the layer of Sherlock’s pants down with his teeth. The detective’s cock sprang free, already throbbing and beginning the leak precum from its tip. Sensitive, the head felt the brush of John’s breath against it, twitching eagerly even as Sherlock felt the heat of lust coil tighter in him and another groan catch in his throat.

_“Oh-”_

John chuckled at the noise, teasing the man by laving a stripe from Sherlock’s perineum to cock-tip, but otherwise not applying even close the right pressure. It was just enough to set the detective’s teeth on edge, and his hips stuttered forward, trying to seek out the talented tongue once more. The army doctor however seemed prepared for this reaction. Pinning Sherlock’s hips in place, John looked up at him through the fan of his lashes.

“Uh uh. None of that now. I need you to be good for me and patient, I’ve got some things I want to do to you yet.”

John ducked his head lower then, mouthing tortuously slowly along the underside of Sherlock’s cock. A gentle humming had the detective’s knees quivering, and he let out a choked-off cry.

The army doctor in response let out a moan of his own, and suddenly, this was not enough. Not even remotely. John couldn’t tell when exactly he found himself once again ushering Sherlock closer in the direction of a bed. On the way, Sherlock stripped off his coat, dropping it somewhere to be ignored upon the floor. John did the same with his own, for good measure separating just long enough to hook his fingers into the underside of his jumper and pulling it over his head. Sherlock thought to himself that the sight of that alone was enough to make him want to get on his knees himself.

The detective’s room was surprisingly clean, despite the chaos of the flat. Like a sanctuary, an eye in the middle of the storm, clean sheets and organized shelves greeted John. It was surprisingly beautiful, elegant and tasteful, and it turned filthy as Sherlock without much fuss flopped down upon the bed, shedding clothes with the desperation of a man who hadn’t been laid for far too long.

Quirking a small grin to himself, John didn’t need to be invited any other way to come forward. Their lips met again, and this time it was less out of a burning need and more out of a desire to explore. The detective had plush lips, and the army doctor found to his immense satisfaction that they turned a delicious shade of dark pink when bitten gently. In fact, with Sherlock’s complexion much of the detective was pink with arousal, from his cheeks to his navel. John looked at it and couldn’t help but lick his lips at the delicateness of the colour, breaking away then to kiss the detective’s collarbones, dipping lower only after Sherlock’s fingers were twisting themselves into the sheets, his head thrown back so that sweat-soaked curls haloed his face.

“Beautiful.” John murmured appreciatively at the sight, then said no more as his mouth became far more interested in finding all the ways he could get Sherlock to scream. A warm tongue to the crease of the detective’s inner thigh had the man writhing; a kittenish lick to his cock had him whining. When John swallowed him down finally- finally, the detective let out an aborted shout, his hands reaching hesitatingly to John’s hair. The ex-army doctor started bobbing his head and with that, Sherlock bit down on his lips, small whines coming from the back of his throat. For a moment all that could be heard was the wet, suction noise of John’s mouth being put to work, and Sherlock’s increasingly high-pitched whines.

The pleasure was a pulsing beat, humming just at the base of Sherlock’s spine. It only seemed to increase, growing hotter and hotter and spreading out to encompass him like a supernova exploding outwards. Words weren’t even an idea any more, save for the most base of vocabulary, such as John and More and Please, God, Please.

So when the army doctor began to draw away, the detective  wanted to scream in frustration, making an inarticulate sound of need and betrayal even as John ran a soothing hand along the inside of his quivering thigh.

“ _Shh._ It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you. Just need some things to do so, first.”

The detective thought that John was being cruel, really. Leaving him in the state he was, without even bothering to strip himself, first. The ex-army doctor was still in his jeans and a t-shirt, a fact that was frankly unacceptable in the detective’s mind and was something that he could fix if he could just get his limbs to cooperate for a damn minute-

His thoughts were cut off by a question that had Sherlock’s heart beating faster, his eyes if not already blown to pupil-black darkening further. John was kneeling upon the bed above him, looking around with an expression of faint concentration.

“I have lube in my back pocket, was half-hopeful for a shag to begin with tonight. But, condoms?”

For once in his life, Sherlock felt a moment of complete, blind panic. Condoms. _Condoms._ Where in the living _hell_ did he put that box he’d bought all those months ago when he’d been messing around with _Victor_ for an experiment…John must have seen the stricken look on his face, because the man straightened, looking around the room critically before his eye landed upon the night table. A thoughtful expression crossed his face, and leaning over with flexibility that was surprising even given his profession, he opened the top drawer. A triumphant smile and a relieved sigh made Sherlock flop all the way back down onto the mattress with a sob of thanks to whatever deity obviously existed, then he was rolling over, scrambling to make the oncoming process as easy as possible.

John laughed aloud at the eager display before him, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the packet of lube before reaching into the box and tearing open a condom with ease speaking of experience. He rolled it on before opening the lube, pouring some onto his fingers and reaching out with his free hand to pull Sherlock’s hips closer. The detective bit his lip at the touch, burying his face into the covers and willing himself to continue breathing, to not give into the instinct to completely lose it and beg until John just fucked him-

A finger traced along his spine gently, comforting, running down his spine gently. It traced around the detective’s furled entrance, lube slick and cool despite the warmth of John’s hands. When the ex-army doctor finally pressed in, Sherlock was unable to contain his groan, hands once again twisting themselves into the sheets. His hips snapped back instinctively, wanting to be fuller, quicker. Yet John, cruel John, didn’t seem willing to rush, keeping a maddeningly slow pace even as he thrust once, twice. On the third thrust, the ex-army doctor’s finger brushed in and upwards, seeking out the bundle of nerves that would have the detective seeing fireworks. He found it a moment later, as he pushed in a second finger and curled them. Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide, and he simultaneously tried to impale himself on John’s fingers and pull away, his cock needing more friction.

“Oh, please.” He whined, voice completely low and wrecked, a broken baritone that was attempting to become a tenor. The sound made John want to pin the detective down, to shrug his jeans down just enough to be able to take what he wanted, but the ex-army doctor bit his lip, hanging onto the last vestiges of his control. Three fingers in, and Sherlock was a mess, lost in his own pleasure that was at once just right and not enough. When it finally felt as if he could take the teasing torment any more, John’s fingers withdrew, drawing a shuddering breath from both men. Sherlock leaned his forehead against his trembling arms, expecting fully for John to fill him a moment later- and was somewhat confused when he felt hands turning him over.

John looked utterly wrecked, sweat making his blonde hair stand on end, his blue eyes turned nearly black from arousal. Yet in that moment, there was a minute quiver of nervousness in the ex-army doctor’s gaze. Strange, for someone so obviously used to sharing a bed. Vaguely, Sherlock’s mind attempted to scramble itself together, trying to deduce it. He found it somewhat more difficult than it should have been, probably.

A moment later, John answered the detective’s unspoken question with a quiet, self-conscious chuckle.

“Um. This is going to sound… rather dumb. Yeah… But… I want…”

John trailed off then, his cheeks burning. The detective for a moment wondered if the night was about to get unthinkably kinky even for a stripper, but a closer look made Sherlock see that John’s hesitant expression had more to do with embarrassment than shame. A moment later, the ex-army doctor’s gaze flitted to the sheets, and a question poured from his lips in a rush of exhaled breath.

“Iwanttoseeyourface.”

And then

“Theothers. Theydidn’t...Theydidn’tlookatme, after. IwanttoseeyourfaceandIdon’twantthistobeaonetimethingbecauseyou’reactuallybrilliantandohGodI’mbollocksingthisup-”

It was self-preservation really, Sherlock supposed, that he leaned forward to cut John off with a kiss. No one would have survived the level of pointlessness that was coming out of the ex-army doctor’s lips, especially since Sherlock had no plans of the night becoming a one-off. He did his best to convey this, deepening the kiss and sliding a hand to John’s hips, between his legs. The ex-army doctor let out a broken cry as Sherlock pressed the palm of his hand to John’s cock, running up the man’s length slowly before breaking away. The detective’s voice was low as he spoke, but his words held in them a hunger that could not be hidden, even to the most unobservant audience.

“I _want_ you to fuck me. I _want_ to see you, your face when you’re in me. I _want_ to be able to leave marks down your back that will stay for days because even though your occupation is onstage I _want_ people to know that you’re mine. I _want._ ”

Sherlock said the last bit softly, the beginnings of his tirade soon falling to a whisper. He murmured the words even while crawling into John’s lap, curling about the man in a way that was both sexual and yet somehow comforting. John was rather alarmed to feel his throat tighten at the sight of it, of Sherlock looking down at him with an emotion in his eyes that he hadn’t seen in quite a long time in the face of someone he’d slept with. Whether or not the detective even recognised the emotion, the ex-army doctor wasn’t certain. Yet it was enough that he could see it, even as Sherlock wriggled John’s jeans and those damn red pants far enough down that he could grind downwards on the ex-army doctor’s cock.

John felt those spider-like hands smooth down his back, and instinctively, his own hands tightened on Sherlock’s hips. The crown of his cock was pressing against Sherlock’s entrance, and even as John used the shreds of his self-control to stop, the detective ground down, breaching himself with the filthiest of moans. Throwing his head back, his cheeks flushed pink, the detective gripped John’s shoulders.

“Now please, for the love of God, _fuck_ me!” And like a switch was turned on, John Watson obeyed.

Gripping Sherlock’s pale hips, the ex-army doctor pressed up into him, setting a pace that was both brutal as it was exquisite. Sherlock cried out with the force of it, his breath stolen from his lungs even as he rocked in John’s lap. Being bounced on John’s cock at this angle made him feel as if he were being impaled in the best of ways, and the growing pleasure that had been coiling tighter and tighter felt as if it was suddenly being pulled taut and straight like a piano string.

 _“Sherlock.”_  The army doctor hissed, his face buried in the detective’s shoulder. By way of answer, the detective dug his nails into the man’s back, his neglected cock repeatedly brushing John’s stomach. It was too much. It was not enough. Teetering on the edge of oblivion and pleasure the detective whimpered, the sound cracking like a school boy’s. He couldn’t seem to formulate the words, not when John kept driving at his prostate, hitting that spot that had his toes curling and his spine alighting with licks of fire.

Somehow, the ex-army doctor seemed to understand anyway. The bruising grip the man had on Sherlock’s hips shifted, one hand curling between them, fisting the detective’s cock with a maddening twist at the end over the crown. It only took a few pulls, a few more punishing thrusts that hit just so, and Sherlock felt as if he were being hit by a train. John watched through hooded eyes as Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, unseeing, before a cry tore itself from the man’s lips and his eyes closed shut once more. Like a bow being pulled the detective curled forward, burying his face into John’s neck and his nails scratching down the ex-army doctor’s skin. It was the burst of pleasure-pain and seeing the man look so completely undone that forced John over the edge. Cursing, he was coming, pleasure whiting out his vision even as he felt the sticky-warm sensation of the detective’s release on his stomach.

 

It took a while before either of them could move, much less speak. Eventually however, it occurred to John that Sherlock was likely going to be sore. The detective whimpered and twitched as he pulled out, but otherwise couldn’t voice much protest. He went to the bed with ease, guided by the ex-army doctor’s capable hands. That taken care of, John gripped the base of the condom before pulling and tying it off, tossing it somewhere to be dealt with when there was more daylight and coffee to be had. He was only gone for a moment, but when John returned to the bed Sherlock’s eyes were closed, a small frown of displeasure on his face as he groped blindly for John’s warmth. The man mused that the detective must get cold easily, bony as he was. John’s theory proved to be correct, as Sherlock curled around his body like an overly-affectionate cat when he got back into the bed.

“Should clean up.” John murmured softly into the man’s dark curls, even as he settled down more firmly for the night. Sherlock muttered something disapproving at the idea of moving, burying his nose against John’s chest, nuzzling along the fine gold hair there like it was an unexpected delight. Chuckling softly at the reaction, the blonde reached over the detective to grip the edge of the blankets, swaddling Sherlock’s bare form into a sort of cocoon next to him. A moment later, John leaned to his side of the bed, doing the same with the rest of the blankets over his form. Comfortably huddled in a pseudo sleeping-bag for two, both John and Sherlock felt the buzz of post-orgasm lassitude fill them, and neither could find the will to keep their eyes open.

John was just about ready to pass out truthfully, when the detective squeezed his long arms about him possessively. Sherlock’s voice was tired, but it sounded clear enough, it’s tone demanding and petulant but strangely… sweet.

“Meant what I said. Want you.”

The ex-army doctor paused then, waking up just enough to run one callused hand through Sherlock’s curls shakily. Softly, as if he might scare away the fragile hope building in his own chest, John Watson had to ask.

“...You mean it?”

By way of answer, Sherlock frowned.

“Don’t be _dull_. Of course. Mn. But I play violin. An’ don’t clean. Should warn you. Somewhat awful.”

Smiling, John Watson closed his eyes, for once in his life feeling utterly and completely warm. Safe. Happy. After so long, it was like a balm to a long-bleeding wound.

“Well, S’pose couples should know the worst about each other. I get nightmares. And I don’t cook well, honestly.”

Sighing sleepily, Sherlock sounded as if he was most long-suffering man in the world.

“I _know_ , John. Now for the love of all that’s holy, go to _sleep_ so I can _shag_ you in the morning.”

John didn’t need to be told twice, his eyes falling shut obediently.

He slept well that night.

  
 

 


End file.
